Part 3 of Native: Life in a vanishing landscape

Native: Life in a Vanishing Landscape

The white stripes

Continuing our exclusive extracts from his award-winning book, Patrick Laurie explains why he prizes a once-despised strain of Galloway cattle

By Patrick Laurie

The original herds of Galloway cattle probably looked like a muddle, a churning mix of black, red, brown (dun) and white animals. Some were ‘belted’ with a white band around their bellies, and there were all kinds of other markings and patterns which lay somewhere in between. As momentum gathered, farmers began to focus on pure black cattle – ‘black, black and only black’ as the saying goes. The Galloway Cattle Society was established in 1878 and set down many of the conventions which had become habit. They decreed that only three colours should be recognised as true. Red and dun were popular, but black was king. Black Galloways would go on to power the beef industry in the south of Scotland for the next century, and in time they’d cast a broad shadow across the world.

The future was less promising for animals which failed to conform. Some of the oldest Galloways were black animals with a white stripe along their spines and under their bellies. These were called Riggit Galloways, pointing to the pitched white ‘rigg’ on their back. Irish farmers made a fetish o these same beautiful markings, and they developed the beautiful Droimeann and Moiled breeds with the same white line. Maybe that’s where our riggs came

from to start with, but whatever the explanation, riggit markings were not approved by the Galloway Cattle Society. The beasts were held to be scruffy and obscure. We wanted nothing more to do with them.

The genes which govern riggit markings are recessive and the pattern is easily suppressed. By contrast, Black Galloway genetics are absurdly dominant; put a Black Galloway with any other breed and the calf will always be black and hornless. Even a red, horny Highlander will toe the line. Nature seemed to be steering farmers towards conformity, and riggit calves were no longer kept for breeding. The Society built a structure which allowed farmers to focus and refine their efforts, but it also ironed out rich seams of variety. A fine, subtle shred of our ancient agricultural heritage was rushed out of sight in a few short years.

Riggits continued to pop up here and there over the next century in a series of bizarre genetic throwbacks. Humans soon forgot them, and unexpected Riggit calves were seen as inexplicable freaks. My grandfather worked with Galloway cattle all his life, but he’d have been stumped by the sight of a Riggit. In contrast, his grandfather would have recognised Riggits immediately and maybe would’ve thought that judging a cow by its markings was a fairly shallow business.

It happened that a beautifully marked Riggit calf was born in the 1980s near Kirkcudbright. Like many others before her, the little heifer came as a bolt from the blue. Both of her parents had been pedigree Galloways, and there was nothing to suggest that a Riggit calf could even be possible from the pairing.

The tale turns strange when you hear that another Riggit calf was born that year on a different farm a few miles away. Here was a little bull, just as unexpected. Throwbacks like these happen now and again, but two at once in the same place is something extraordinary. There was no reason for either farmer to do any more than shrug, but they were curious enough to find out more. A crucial piece of evidence lay in a painting by the Regency artist George Garrard. Captioned ‘A Fat Galloway Heifer at Smithfield Christmas Show – 1804’, the painting clearly shows a Riggit Galloway with a white head, a white rigg and classic markings from tail to snout. The weird, throwback calves suddenly had a name and a heritage; they were every bit as pure and authentic as the finest pedigree stock. It was obvious that they should be paired.

With the backing of friends in high places, Riggit Galloways began a long climb out of obscurity. Some people actively disliked the Riggits and thought they were mongrels which gave the pure Galloway a bad name. A few took active steps to stymie the Riggit’s resurrection, but other farmers were persuaded to keep their own throwbacks and use them for breeding. The markings were quietly kindled back into life, but always in tiny numbers and often clustered around southern England. Now there’s even a Riggit Galloway Cattle Society, which serves as a network for people who love the markings. The animals are registered ‘pedigree’, as much as that’s possible.

Some people still say that Riggit Galloways are worth nothing at all because you can’t breed them true. That’s a fair point. Put a Riggit bull with a Riggit cow and you still need to roll the dice for a Riggit calf. You might end up with something that’s black or white or somewhere between, but that’s how the old herds used to work. The important thing is that these are Galloway cattle and they’re defined by unpredictable markings. There’s no such thing as the ‘perfect Riggit’, and in a world of cast-iron regulations, that creates some nice space for personal preference.

A handful of Riggit Galloways remain in Galloway, and I went to see my first beasts as an act of curiosity on a warm, sunlit evening in September. The cows belonged to Richard, and he is good with his animals. He’s gentle and softly spoken, and he chatted to them as if they were dear old friends. I was smitten. These beasts smelled of cud and honesty, lightly shaken from the leaves of a history book. I drank them in and found that they were home incarnate; a place conjured up in curls and long, soft eyelashes.

I warmed to the riggit colours in a heartbeat; blacks and whites swirled together like a freshly poured pint of stout. I’d always been dead set on Black Galloways, but there was no way I could ever walk away from these animals. I chose one calf for her markings, which were a perfect replica of the old Garrard painting of 1804. She was blotchy, soft and perfectly gorgeous. I picked a second for her shape – a broad, tubby barrel with a wrinkle of fat around her neck. Richard shook my hand and we sealed the deal, but there was a squeak of dishonesty on my part. I didn’t have any money to pay for these calves, but I reassured myself that there were still three months to worry about that.

It turned out that my first heifers were absurdly independent. I was ready to care for them, but they didn’t need anything from me. They came out of the lorry, vanished into the whins, and I didn’t see them again for a week. I fell to tracking their movements like a big game hunter. That makes them sound nervy and wild, but really it was a knowing adolescent coolness which kept them at arm’s length. I’d been told that they would be ‘low maintenance’ but found that they were ‘no maintenance’. They made it clear that my duty was to feed them and then get lost.

One of my calves was the most beautiful animal I’d ever seen. She had a white head with black eyes, black ears and a black nose. We call these markings ‘points’, and here’s the seed of beauty. ‘Wellmarked’ cattle start with deep, expressive eyes which glitter in dribbled mascara. Beyond this, riggit markings can be almost anything. The main requisite is a white stripe which runs from the withers to the rump, but my favourite was mottled all over. Her sister had a black head and a white arse. The third was dappled with blue roan and the fourth was daubed with blocky, geometrically perfect markings with hard lines. They were a jumble and I adored their details, but I couldn’t ignore the fact that these animals aren’t supposed to be viewed up close. Pat and dandle them all you like, but Galloways look best in a middle distance of tumbling moorland and rising cloud. At the range of a mile, Riggits make a smattered line of black and white to make your heart sing.

In Native, Patrick Lurie makes the case for meat from traditional local breeds such as Riggit Galloways

Native: Life in a Vanishing Landscape by Patrick Laurie is published by Birlinn (£9.99,pbk)